Boy
by eternitys-backpack
Summary: harry potter oneshot. Why am i Always called BOY? by my uncle, my aunt, by teachers, even wizards call me the boy that lived...i wanna be Harry, just Harry.


Hello. i am not dead. i have been very sick (not achoo sick but doctor sick) AND before that i was writing exams. (blah) anyway, sorry for not updating in so long and coming back with a Oneshot harry potter fic. I have been working on my other storys don't worry. They WILL be Updated. soon....

Weird oneshot that i may one day write a multi-chap for but not anytime soon. Any way, i don't own harry potter. i own the clerk and James Parsons. he's mine. bwahahahahahahahahaha

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The Boy Who Shops for Books

'Boy.'

It was so derogatory. So awful and painful and twisting and unbearably _present._ Everywhere. Was there no place to breathe? No place to be anything but 'Boy'?

To be Harry. Just, Harry.

Not the 'Golden Boy', not 'The Boy Who Lived', not the 'Boy-hero', not the teenage prophesy. Not even 'HarryPotter' which never seemed to be two distinct and separate words but one continuous flow, slurred together by alluring newspapers and fame.

He wanted to be Just Harry. He wanted to never be defined as anything but an ordinary kid who just so happened to be named Harry. The one who lives down the street and likes green, collects knickknacks and drinks a little to much tea. He wanted to be regular. The status quo of society England.

He wanted to get yelled at when he flunked something and get congratulated when he passed. He wanted to try out for a sports team and get put on second string. Afterwards he would work his ass off to be on the first string, and when he finally succeeded he'd feel brilliant. Sirius would come to a game and cheer, just like all the other parents. Maybe he would swear at the referee, who was clearly blind for missing that 'obvious assault!' Sometimes Sirius would have to work and miss a game and Harry would sulk like any other kid. He'd blow it way out of proportion and Sirius would have to take him out for dinner to make up for it. They'd laugh over everything as Harry would recount the game from his slightly skewed view, then Harry would sneak a sip of Sirius' wine when he wasn't looking and get scolded. He wanted to wake up on his birthday and be spoiled by everyone around him. He wanted to _expect_ Christmas presents.

He wanted to be this fantasy Harry that had been born so many years ago under such pleasantly ordinary circumstances. Was it really to much to ask for?

Instead of Fantasy-Just-Harry, he was 'Boy'. From the first moment he opened his tiny mouth to wail he had been 'Boy' He was sure that whatever doctor or midwife or nurse that had assisted his mother during birth and proudly proclaimed 'Congratulations, it's a boy!' without realising she was dooming the poor thing.

At first it was a replacement for his real name. Aunt Petunia screeched it out in her high falsetto when she needed him to attend to something, Uncle Vernon bellowed it in his deep bass while he raged and beat him senseless. It was as if the effort to properly announce his name would solidify his existence, accepting his remarkably abnormal presence in their remarkably normal lives. He hated it. He wanted to exist, to be acknowledged. He wanted to scream "My name is HARRY!!" But all he heard was "BOY!"

"BOY! Don't be so full of yourself!"

"BOY! Do something about this mess!"

"BOY! Is the coffee ready yet?"

"You are unwanted, BOY! Can you wrap your head around that?"

"All you cause is trouble. A Freak. It would have been better if we'd never taken you in. Useless BOY!"

"Hurry _up, _Boy!"

BOY! BOY! BOY! BOY! BOY! BOY! BOY! BOY!

It drove him crazy. It woke him in the middle of the night in shivers and trembles. Red eyes with slits for pupils calling out, 'kill the BOY'

He dreamt a gravestone that said;

H.J.P. 'Boy'

'Here lies a useless boy who died alone, unloved and unwanted. But no one really cares anyway.'

The word became poison.

Then everything changed. He'd found out he was wizard, he found friends and family and Dumbledore and Hagrid and the Weasley's. He had a place where he belonged, a place that accepted him for he was. People that wouldn't hate him, some even liked him. Maybe he could live a semi-normal life after all. He was _happy _for the first time in his life.

But then there was that word again.

The_ Boy _who lived.

Did they have any idea how much that hurt? Any idea how torturous that was? How it burned in his ears and trickled painfully down his spine? Every time Ron uttered it nonchalantly he wanted to vomit. Hermione, Hagrid, his friends, the Weasley's. It hurt so much. It was the same again. He was not Just Harry here either, he was a new kind of Boy. He was the Hero-Boy. The saviour, the myth, the legend. The scar. It was not _who_ he was. It was _what_ he was. Harry had only ever wanted to be a who. A person. But once again he was somehow unreal. Almost _sur_real, fairytale, non-existent. Just Harry died again.

He was suffocating. Everywhere he went. It was like the word was attached to him, clinging to his skin like an insect or leech, soaking his essence while he drowned in it's putrid stink.

'Somebody, anybody! I'm drowning here. I can't live like this. When did I stop being a human and turn into _this?!'_

"Oops, Sorry." A voice cut through his rumination. Harry suddenly recalled that he had been riding the tram and that he was standing. The seats were all jammed to the limits so Harry had decided to stand, offering his seat to an elderly lady. She had called him a 'Nice Boy' which had unknowingly started him on this whole trail of thoughts.

A young man, probably Harry's age, had just apologized for bumping into him. He had long brown hair that was tied in a short little ponytail at the nape of his neck while his bangs hung lazy and loose around his face, longer pieces reaching almost all the way to his chin. Harry couldn't help but wonder if the lengthy bangs got in the way of his view. His eyes hid behind a suave pair of sunglasses, further obscuring his sight. The kid was a classic high school student. Fifteen, sixteen tops. Slick black jeans that were baggy, big feet tucked in the newest runners, and a black slim fitting t-shirt. Harry shifted away from the boy who was about the same extraordinarily average height as Harry.

"Don't worry about it, mate." Harry shrugged, peering outside wondering if he'd missed his stop. He had been sent to the bookstore to purchase a shady romance novel for Aunt Petunia, a couple summer reading books that Dudley had neglected to read thus far, and some crappy book about nails for Uncle Vernon. Harry had wanted to read J.D. Salinger's 'Catcher in the Rye' for a forever and a half, but until now he hadn't the muggle money with which to buy it. Amazing how rich he could be in one half of his life and how poor in the other. He had picked up a summer job in a local convince store and had earned quite a bit working weird hours no one else particularly wanted. With summer half-over he had clearly made enough. So that was one of the reasons he had complied with the outing. It was also time away from the Dursleys. Time alone.

"Lucky…" Harry whispered to himself, silently thanking the other teen. It was his stop next and he would have dozed right through it.

A small girl, one or two was gazing openly at Harry from her perch beside her mother. Harry grinned back, feeling a little lighter. He pulled a face and the girl giggled happily. Harry almost laughed to, but held it. Out of the corner of his eye, the teenager seemed to have watched the transaction and stifled a laugh. Harry helped the same elderly women carry her groceries of the bus.

"What a nice boy, your parents have raised you well!" She complimented, patting his arm. Harry laughed nervously. If the Dursley's had, indeed, raised him well, he'd shoot himself in the foot and hobble for the rest of his life. 'Boy.' had stung but Harry smiled politely through it. The average teenager from the bus had gotten off as well and was gazing oddly at Harry.

"Have a nice day ma'am," Harry said turning towards the bookstore, purposely ignoring the adolescent. The door made a mechanical 'ding' as he pushed it open. It was some big corporation spread nation wide, the only place to get Dudley's school books and Aunt Petunia's scandalous love affair novel, and Harry was certain no where else would possibly sell Uncle Vernon's craptastic collection of nail guns. He went through the motions lazily, trying hard not to be embarrassed by 'Summer Hotel', a hot and steamy romance. The girl at the counter seemed to be stifling a giggle and Harry pretended to check the purchase list his aunt had made for him. As she was scanning he pointed to the title and asked if it was the right one as on the list, just to prove that it wasn't his. She smiled.

"Buying for your mother?" She asked lightly. She was pretty, with large bluish-brown eyes and ginger-brown hair. Harry flushed lightly. He wished he had something better to wear. He was wearing a beat up grey t-shirt under a huge unbuttoned handy-me-down blue plaid shirt Dudley had abandoned awhile back. Even his jeans were a couple sizes to large and the belt didn't do much to keep them on his waist. His ratty old red high top shoes were barely held together by their laces. He knew he looked unkempt.

"No, my aunt." he shrugged. He felt sure his mother would not read such slosh. He ran a hand through his disorganized array of deep black hair, unknowingly causing the girl's heart to skip a beat. Harry didn't know it, but he was handsome. His messy large clothes made him look cool with an almost grunge image, and they only accented his sporty build and long legs. His wild hair was attractive and clean but it was mostly his eyes. Wide and beautiful with heavy lashes and an unique striking green colour. They were also dejected, serious, wizened beyond their years. He was mysterious, and wounded. It was compelling. He was the classic 'damaged, heartthrob hero', that was likely found in the very book he had just purchased.

"That's very kind of you." She replied flirtatiously, but it seemed to zoom right over Harry's head.

"Ah, thanks. But I'm not such a nice guy, I just like the smell of bookstores." he grinned cheekily. It was true, something about them were stunning. The smell of ink mingling with fresh untouched paper, it reminded him of Hogwarts, of his home. He cast a wistful gaze at the neat spacious corporate book store. The girl almost sighed.

"Miss, can you tell me if you sell 'Catcher in the Rye'?" Harry said suddenly. He had searched, but to no avail. He had researched and found a little privately owned bookstore a short walk from here that sold a used copy, but if they sold it cheaper here…

But they did not. The girl searched it and told him they were currently sold out, but she could put it on hold for him. She seemed oddly hopeful that he would accept. Harry smiled and shook his head, no thanks. It was cheaper down the road anyway.

He wondered down the street in a daze. He was finally going to buy 'Catcher in the Rye' What would he buy next? He had money. He could do what he wanted. 'To Kill A Mockingbird', he'd always wanted to read Shakespeare's 'Hamlet' and John Milton's Paradise Lost. He wasn't sure when he'd gotten himself caught up in the classic's but it was probably somewhere between 'Lord of the Flies' and 'Robinson Crusoe' by Daniel Defoe. Or maybe 'Treasure Island' had been the starter. Either way, he wanted 'Catcher in the Rye' and now he was going to get it.

He almost skipped towards the building when he caught sight of it. He stuffed his one hand into his pocket, liking the feeling of Vernon's old wallet. The door opened with a pleasant chime, disarmingly satisfying compared to it's corporate brother. He inhaled the smell of the bookstore and thought it was even more agreeable. It was waxy but strong and smelt more like a home then a lemony clean store. The clerk, an elderly man, smiled a greeting at him, and Harry smiled happily back. He wished he could work here.

To his surprise the lad with the sunglasses was inside the bookstore too. He was flipping through, shockingly enough, 'Catcher in the Rye.' He glanced up, then blinked in surprise.

"Ah," the boy said in recognition, "The weird kid from the bus!" he pointed, shocked. A hand smacked him on the back of his head, and his sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing part of a scar across his eyebrow, a similar shape to Harry's lightening bolt only fainter and smaller.

"Ouch, old man!" The boy snapped at the clerk, hurrying to slide his glasses back on.

"Don't say rude things to my customers James!" the clerk scolded the boy. "Sorry young man." He apologized to Harry.

"Ah, no problem, I am a little strange anyway." Harry brushed it off, smiling casually. He is a wizard after all. Strangest of the strange. "Actually, I was wondering…" Harry faced James, a boy who shared his Father's name, "Are you going to buy that?"

He pointed helplessly at Catcher in the Rye, praying the answer was no.

"This kid never buys anything." The clerk replied before James could open his mouth.

"Then…can I?" Harry asked, almost nervous. James grinned, putting the book in Harry's hand.

"You fancy these kind of books? Classics and what not?" James asked, Harry nodded.. "My name's James Parson, put her there." He said cheerfully sticking out a hand to shake.

"Harry Po-" Just Harry. "p-pleasure to meet you." Harry shook his hand, heart pounding. He hadn't said his last name. To this stranger he really was just Harry. "Am I really so obviously bizarre?" Harry questioned out of the blue.

"Well, see I've seen you around before and you're just…I dunno. Sort of interesting, I guess. You're always alone or with that big wallop of a boy, Dudley. But you seem so pleased when you're on your own. I see you all the time in the park sitting on those busted up swing sets, or at the convenience store. You're just a strange teenager I guess. Quiet, reserved, polite, friendly, easily contented." Harry flushed.

"What? Are you stalking me or something?" Harry accused wildly. What the heck was with this boy? You think he would have notice this kid before if he'd really seen him all those times. "I must be some sort of space case not to notice a stalker." Harry had not meant to say it aloud. The boy laughed heartily.

"Nah, I just take note of kids that I don't know. I like to know everyone, that's why I know Dudley. How do you know him?" it was startling how quickly and effortlessly the kid dismissed the stalker comment.

"Trust me, I'd rather not know the lummox. He's my cousin. Regretfully." Harry commented sourly, moving towards the cashier in a way that said he wanted James to come as well and continue talking.

"That galoot? You look nothing alike." James followed obediently, both word-wise and direction.

"A cow-pig hybrid looks more akin to him." Harry replied, smirking. James laughed.

"So do you visit them in the summer? Is that why I don't see you around during the school year? Do you're folks live far away?" He seemed genuinely curious.

"Well, I go to a boarding school that's pretty far off. My parents are dead so I don't have anywhere else to go on break so they ship me off to that sorry hovel. Soon as I'm eighteen I'll rent an apartment or something." Harry breezed lightly.

"Oh. I'm-uh-sorry…" James sputtered as Harry paid the shocked clerk.

"For what?" Harry said, confused, glancing to the empathetic looking clerk. What had he said to ruin the light atmosphere? It was so cheery a minute ago.

"I mean, your folks and all…" James faltered. Oh. Harry had forgotten how strange and un-Just Harryish that was.

"Oh, Don't worry mate. I was only a baby. Can't really miss something you've never had." That was an outright lie. He missed them all the time. Not a day passes where he doesn't think of them.

"Is that so." The clerk replied, and Harry got the feeling he had seen through the lie. Harry looked up at the old man with wise eyes. The conversation was getting uncomfortably intimate.

"Well, maybe you just get used to it." Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. Suddenly something flickered in the old man's eyes.

"Have you been here before lad?" he said abruptly.

"Er, no sir, first time." Harry replied questioningly. The old man rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"It's weird. I feel like your name should be James…something-or-other" He trailed off. Harry froze, almost dropping his bag. He took a sharp breath. "The way you run your hand through your hair…"

"_My_ name is James you senile old goat!" James accused, leaning on the counter.

"Potter? James Potter?" Harry interrupted, his breath short and quick. He old man blinked then snapped his withered old fingers.

"My goodness, that's it. Why, you're far to young to be James! That was years and years ago! Fine lad, he was. You're the spitting image off him." The man beamed.

"My father…shopped here?" He said brokenly. His father. Had his father stood in this very spot, talking to this very man? James Potter had smelled this store? Glanced at these book shelves? James, the one still alive, looked astounded as the elderly man looked suddenly sorrowed.

"You mean James has passed away? How awful. He was a splendid lad, always shopping around some strange witch fictions. His girlfriend came sometimes to, Lily Evans I believe. Is she your mother? You have her eyes. She was an avid reader, her tastes were similar to yours I would say."

"M-My mother?" he had the same taste as his mother. "I have my mum's taste in books?" Harry's voice was like starch. Had his mother read this book? Was she a fan of Shakespeare? Of Milton? Did his father enjoy the smell of bookstores? He tried to picture his father and mother entering the store and hearing the cleansing chime announce their presence. A presence he could not remember, a presence that no longer existed.

"Quite similar, I believe. They used to swing by all the time! They donated books as well, I doubt there's any left though." The old man pondered innocently enough. Harry's body trembled. He had never owned anything his parents had owned, with the exception of his father's cloak. His home had been destroyed, burnt to explosive ashes along with his parent's and all their worldly possessions.

"Are you sure? Could there be any here? I…I don't…they died in a…in a fire with the house so… I don't have anything, I…they…are you sure there's nothing?" Harry was fully aware that he sounded desperate, he was okay with that as long as he got something out of it. He couldn't fathom it. His parents had stood here, talking, laughing, reading, _breathing._ The old man looked back towards the store, staring thoughtfully at the shelves and bins. Was this man recalling his parents? Harry wished he could do that.

"Perhaps…Harper Lee…" The man muttered, already moving to the back of the store in a deranged trance. "One second." He wavered, fully absorbed by his movements. Harry could feel a lump building in his throat and felt his heart thudding through his chest skin, about to rip right out. He could not place the reason behind this fear, but whatever it was, it was potent. James was in empathetic awe. A silence trembled heavily in the air for a long drawn out moment.

"It was your scar." James finally said, shattering the moment. Harry turned to face him curiously. "It's what really drew my attention. The first time I saw you, in the first week of summer break, you were sitting on the swing in the park, reading something or other. Your hair was all sticky up and your scar was just there. Vibrant and strong and displayed. Like you didn't care who saw it, like you didn't care that you had it. Like you were proud of it or something." James carefully touched his forehead.

Harry was shocked. He had a feeling this kid did not really understand what a scar like his does to someone. It was like a blinding neon light above his head that proclaimed his 'Herohood' to the world, displayed his abnormality. But that was in the wizarding world, not amongst muggles. Who cares if the good but boring people of No-wheres-ville saw his scar. It meant nothing to them. It was just a blotch on his face. It was amazing how different something can be, once put in perspective.

Sure, Harry didn't really care about his scar, he was certainly not proud and felt no particular fondness for the marking. It was a marking that sent him apart from his friends, from his family, it's what kept him from 'Just Harry" but…

"It just proves I lived, I guess. That I'm alive. It should have killed me, but it didn't. I'm not proud, just thankful I suppose." Harry's finger's reached up to touch his scar absently.

"How did you get yours? Why are you so ashamed of it?" Harry asked in turn.

"Car accident. I'm not ashamed, it's just that…" James pulled of his sunglasses. The scar was more prominent than Harry had originally assumed. It was much more faded than Harry's forever notorious cursed scar, but it was longer and a little thicker. It gashed across his eyebrow in a light pink line, cutting dangerously close to his eye. It was easily the focus of his face. "I used to be handsome, I think." James laughed, and Harry laughed too, nodding in agreement.

He understood what it was like for someone to see a scar, not a face. If he didn't have the scar, his eyes would be the focus of his face, even behind thick glasses. The vibrant green that clashed appealingly with his black hair was notable. He was sure that very few wizards even knew what colour his eyes were, despite many magazine photos. It wasn't a great feeling.

"Pretty close to the eye, mate." Harry finally said, tapping his own scar jokingly. He got the feeling that James knew he understood what that was like. They were brothers in arms. Or…er…scars.

"Yeah, they thought I was going to be half blind." James admitted, reaching to touch his scar. And they stood there for a moment, mirroring the movement, both of their hands pressed sentimentally against their individual burdens.

Harry felt an attachment he had never felt before. It was as if he was on the same wave length as this person, walking the same path. It felt like he was a ball flying through the air and all his friends whiz by over and over, often hitting the same spot as him. Voldemort and the Dursley's slice painfully across his path as well. Then suddenly, in this long stretch of loneliness, Harry had stumbled across a ball flying along right beside him. The same pace, the same place. How peculiar that, of all people in the world, it had been this muggle he'd met by chance. It was a feeling reminiscent of Luna Lovegood who always seemed to know what to say and when. Luna had the same 'wavelength' as him, Luna and him and now this muggle had a kinship. A likeness.

"Do you want to meet again? Tomorrow?" Harry half whispered. He didn't want to lose this feeling. This understanding. Also the other feeling, the feeling of Just Harry that was not present with Luna.

"You know, I do. I really do." James said, sounding a little surprised by his answer. "The park, let's meet by the swing park."

Harry nodded "I get off work at one." He said just as the elderly shopkeeper shuffled back into view. He was carrying a small worn copy of an old novel. Harry felt himself flutter above the room. He reached for the book, fingers shaking.

Too Kill a Mockingbird. Really, the same taste. Peeling open the first page, he read his mothers name, etched by her own pen open the cover. His mother had written her name on his paper. He made his I's the way she did. Lilly Evans. He traced the letters with his worn fingers in rapt attention. He held a piece of his mother, small and bent pages of her soul. Now he had a piece of both parents. What would he do when he read it? Would he feel the same things she did? Would he laugh at the parts she laughed at? Would he cry when she cried? What if they thought the same thing at the same moment?

His mother. Lilly Evans had loved this book. He would never let it go.

He tried to pay the elderly man but the clerk refused, On the House he said. Harry would have argued, but his throat was thick with tears he wouldn't let fall. they brimmed on his green eyes. The eyes he shared with his mother.

James grinned, patting Harry's back. In his mind, James planned to befriend this boy, this boy who shared his wave length. They were the same. James had a feeling this was going to be a good summer. Harry promised the clerk that he would come again. How could he not?

"So you're Lilly and James' boy," The man said smiling at him. And for once, Harry did not mind being called boy. In fact, it darn near broke his heart.

"Yes," Harry all but whispered, "I am."


End file.
